Posts Tagged ‘ joyride ’


As a 21st century adult, I used to consider myself fairly desensitized. Between the sensational and horrific scenes shown on the evening news in the name of informing us of current affairs (did anyone really need to see Gaddafi’s battered and bloodied face) and the even more graphic violent scenes thrown into movies these days, I was pretty sure my brain had shrunk so far into itself that there was nowhere else to go. I still had the good grace to flinch when unpleasant images where presented to me but deep down inside, I thought I had reached a stage where I could handle most things. But, you might have guessed by now, I’ve just realised how wrong I was.

I used to hate driving. Outside of the mortal fear that I would crash into a tree or run someone over in my first few years behind the wheel, I did not enjoy the process of driving at all. When people talked about going out for a drive just for the fun of it, I thought they were a little bit nutty. But when I started to take weekly joyrides on the less busy roads of Central London to ensure that my engine didn’t die a slow death from underuse I found myself enjoying weaving in and out of the narrowest roads and shouting abuse at other drivers. Soon I was even venturing further away from home in my quest to discover other interesting back streets. The occasional scrape and bump no longer scare me as much as they did in the early days.

So today when I decided to take the car out for a spin to kill some time as my flat reeked of fresh paint, I wasn’t expecting anything unusual to happen. When a white van driver nearly crashed into me, I honked and mumbled angrily to myself but that was not unusual. When a cyclist decided to own the road despite moving much slower than me, I worked my way around him and shook my head but that was not unusual. A few pedestrians risking death by running across the road as cars dashed towards them, again nothing unusual. I was halfway through the route I had mapped out for myself when I saw it. Continue reading